


Goodbye Blood And Roses

by RussianWitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Dry Humping, First Time, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Moving On, Sick John, Terminal Illnesses, Unrequited Love, не копировать
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 00:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: John is sick, in fact, he is dying.Hanahaki...is not how he ever expected to go.





	Goodbye Blood And Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Danagirl623 and Holdt for drastically improving readability.  
> Any weird stuff still in there is due to my tinkering with the text after.

He doubles over in the street.

The coughing fit almost brings him to his knees with its intensity.

The sickness is further along than he suspected, not a great surprise—but John refuses to drop to his knees for this; he'll be damned if he ends up crawling through the street.

Covering his mouth with his hand, he shrugs off the questions and touches from fellow pedestrians, waiting it out, waiting for air— not thinking about x-rays he'd studies in medical school the ones that showed different stages of the sickness, the ones he'd admired for the way the vines and branches seemed to weave themselves through and around the organs they destroyed while growing. 

It's a silly disease, John has always thought. Stupid really, to die of unrequited love. Not randomly, thank god, not from an infatuation or something alike.

Only true love could prove deadly or John would have been dead ten times over. 

He had thought himself safe, more than three decades in, three continents and several dozen women later. 

To die after all of that because of a man who's supposed to be dead... 

Clenching crumpled petals in his sticky fist, John bares his teeth at Anthea in a rictus grin, marching past her to slam through Mycroft's door before anyone can stop him.

His chest hurts. John imagines the thorns boring into the lining of his lungs, wrapping tighter around his heart, sapping his life force. 

"John—what a surprise!" Mycroft starts to say.

"Tell me again he's dead!" John interrupts him.

He doesn't yell, doesn't have the air in his lungs to yell any longer.

He croaks, his mouth dry and throat seizing up.

Another coughing fit robs him of breath, so John locks his knees and marches himself to Mycroft's desk, his whole body in agony.

"Look me in the eyes, and lie to my fucking face!" John demands slamming his open hand onto Mycroft's desk, smearing the contents on the papers Mycroft had been reading when he came in.

Brownish blood and pink petals stick together into a lump.

"John, I'm sorry you are unwell, but this is hardly the way to go about—" 

"I am not unwell, Mycroft! I am fucking dying!" John snarls, spit and petals flying, clinging to his bottom lip and dribbling down his chin. "I'm fucking dying because your shit of a brother—"

"Really! There is no need for dramatics, Doctor Watson!" Annoyance drips from Mycroft's face, but there is something in his eyes that doesn't quite add up. 

It gives John the strength to push on. 

"Ironic coming from you!" John growls looming. "I'm not here to beg, or whatever you're thinking, I'm—" He deflates, the next coughing fit hits robbing him of breath, of energy to do anything but fight for his next breath. 

"I want to know if he knew. You don't even have to get him back from doing whatever the hell he's doing, I just want to know," he says. 

He didn't know what he wanted when he left Baker Street, hadn't known when he kicked Mycroft's door in. A need crystalizes as he coughs, watching Mycroft's expression shift from disdain to pity. 

"A text will suffice," John mumbles wetly, spitting another glob of blood and petals into the bin next to the overly ornate desk. 

His leg stiffens as he turns away, the limp returning along with a heaviness he hasn't felt in ages, not since meeting Sherlock that day. 

"Are you going to have the surgery then?" Mycroft calls after him, causing John's spine to stiffen. 

The surgery—like going in to fix an ingrown toe, such a neutral name for something so life-changing. 

It's the obvious thing to do, now that he knows he's been played, left behind—sacrificed for whatever game is afoot. 

It's the logical thing to do. 

It's the Sherlock thing to do. 

Over the years, John has wondered if Sherlock hasn't had it done on occasion, had the surgery and—erased the memory of it. 

John never asked.

He had been curious, everyone would have been in his shoes! But he'd never asked because it wasn't the polite thing to do and no matter what bad habits Sherlock instilled in him, John is nothing if not polite. 

He takes a taxi home because walking or taking the tube would mean suffering people's stares, feeling their pity as they watch him go, waiting for him to spit petals so they can satisfy their curiosity. 

At least, John thinks, he isn't married, isn't dating anyone at the moment. He hasn't dated since Sherlock took his nose dive—John had been too angry, too broken to even think about sex, never mind investing himself into another person. 

He should have caught it then, possibly should have caught it earlier but he'd been too caught up in the adventure of it all, the adrenaline rushes and excitement to notice the twinges that weren't ageing or too much take away, that had been the seed of love sprouting in his heart. 

His phone rings as he mounts the stairs. The number is unknown but John knows it's Mycroft, can't be anyone else but Mycroft or one of his minions. 

No one else pays any attention to one John Watson any longer. 

For all that's been said and done, he might as well be the one who's a ghost. 

The social media leper. 

The fake. 

"What?" he demands, picking up when the phone keeps ringing. 

"Now, now, Johnny, is that any way to talk to an old friend?" Moriarity hisses, and John stumbles over his own two feet, not having expected to hear the voice again. 

"No." John's nerves; they can't handle any more surprises, any more revelations for the week, maybe the year or possibly the rest of his life. 

"If you are hearing this," Moriarity continues despite John's protest, "I am dead, doornailed, croaked, six feet under—," he giggles. "But not gone, dear doctor, not yet!" He hums tunelessly for a stretch as John grits his teeth and his leg trembles. "And I want to have some fun!" 

The call ends, the dial tone deafening in his ear. 

The one-sided conversation has left him dizzy, sagging to sit on a step to keep from breaking his neck with a misstep. 

The urge to yell at the world, to curse at the universe, at himself, at Sherlock—except that he can't, because there are petals in his throat again, his pulse is racing, he's cold and hot and has to blink away tears and the urge to punch something. 

He isn't going to go up and sit in his lonely flat surrounded by Sherlock's crap, brooding about Sherlock's enemy...Stumbling back down, John limps out onto the street. 

The pub is almost empty, it being midday and midweek. 

John doesn't meet anyone's eyes as he sits down and motions to the tap. 

The pint isn't bad— it isn't good either— but it's an excuse to be there and not home, so John clutches at it like a lifeline. 

There is sports on the telly John can follow with half an eye as he tries to ignore the itching in his lungs and the tightness in his chest. 

He isn't sure how long he sits there, the pub fills up with people looking for their tea, loud and boisterous. They aren't sick, aren't carrying the burden of their friend's fictional transgressions as he gallivants to fuck knows where. 

John's hand curls into a fist next to his glass. His leg aches, the people around him are too loud, too happy—A hand presses his wrist to the bar, stops his knuckles from hammering on the wood, drawing people's attention.

The hand is male, a big, square hand dusted with ginger hairs that contrast starkly with pale skin, the arm is covered by the sleeve of a black sweater. John follows it all the way up to a sharp, broad shoulder and further up to a long face covered in day-old stubble.

He meets watery blue eyes studying him intently head-on, the man’s whole body radiating—John straightens his spine, military posture coming back on a moment's notice recognizing a fellow military man. 

His hand is pressed onto the bar a little harder, then released when he doesn't try to fight the stranger's grip. 

"Thanks," John mutters, pulling his hand back as soon as it's free, wrapping it around his pint just to be safe. 

"It happens." The pale-eyed man shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. Not a draft, foreign brand, German? Belgian? Sherlock would know at once, would deduce the man's very childhood from the way he holds his bottle probably. "Especially after a tough day," he offers, not unkindly, after a long pause. 

"Yeah, tough day—though days— Can I buy you a pint in thanks?" John offers on impulse. 

He shouldn't—shouldn't what exactly? He doesn't have a lot of friends in London, not that many outside of it really... 

He's terminal, and the man is _awfully convenient,_ a voice sounding just like Sherlock at his snootiest whistlers in his head. 

"Won't say no to a good beer." The stranger's mouth twists into a smile that transforms his face, taking years off, turning the sinister air around the man mischievous. 

Snorting, John catches the barman's attention, mumbling that whatever the man is having is to be added to his tab and ordering another pint for himself. 

He almost forgets about Sherlock, almost forgetting about the flowers until a coughing fit catches him off guard after they've moved to a booth to the side of the pub and ordered food, a drop of blood and three pink petals unfurling from soggy lumps on the scratched wood. 

"Sorry," John sighs, glaring at the petals so he doesn't have to see the man's interest draining away. Offering friendship to Hanahaki sufferers—

"I'll get you a glass of water," his drinking companion says, getting up, and John doesn't expect him to be back…Except that he does, a glass of water in one hand and a cloth to clean up the mess in the other. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" the man asks once John can breathe again. 

"No," he growls, practically chugging his beer, cursing Sherlock, cursing his life and trying to ignore the little shred of petal stuck behind the salt shaker. 

"Want to tell me your name then?" The mischievous smile returns, infectious despite everything. 

"Oh fuck!" John sighs realizing belatedly he hasn't even introduced himself. "John Watson." He offers his hand. 

"Sebastian Moran," the pale-eyed man introduces himself, his grip warm and familiar: the hand of a soldier. 

Sebastian, John finds, is easy company. 

Familiar in a way that only people who've had similar life experiences can be, comforting in his ambivalence regarding football, rugby, and John spitting up clumps of petals when he gets too agitated. 

He's there fully engaged with John, it's a novelty after several years of being an afterthought. 

He still dreams of Sherlock. Still misses him enough to spit up buds that tear up his throat and make him feel like he's about to choke, but now, now he can call Sebastian who will pick up no matter the time of day and talk to John about the blasted heat and dust in Afghanistan until John can forget again. 

Strange, he thinks one day, realising he's been dying for months now—and he's still there, not getting worse. 

It's impossible. 

It's—not unprecedented, as it turns out. 

Stamford's friend, Doctor Graves, explains. The doctor is enthusiastically, disturbingly happy to have a captive audience. 

"Used to be, it was thought to be impossible for this sort of thing to happen. After all, people simply died or were accepted and it would not occur to anyone to test if there was a different way of going about things. Then the surgery, which was controversial all on its own, was invented. After all, wasn't it God's will? Fate? It was seen as quite blasphemous, let me tell you!" He waves his finger like a flag, stabbing it in Sebastian's direction. "We've grown since then, of course," Graves sighs happily. "But to even imply that soulmates may not exist as such—as your continued state of health would imply, Doctor Watson—would leave a lot of people quite unhappy." 

"What does that mean, exactly?" Sebastian interrupts. His facial expression doesn't change, but by now, John knows he's getting annoyed if not already there. 

"Well, it could be that doctor Watson's constitution is simply that resilient...or his affections are wavering," Graves says, his moustache twitching with excitement. 

The rest of the visit to the doctor passes in a blur. 

John can't stop hearing the words 'his affections are wavering' over and over again in his head as he walks home, Sebastian a shadow at his side. 

He stomps up the stairs, grateful that Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister and drops into his chair still wearing his coat. 

Sebastian doesn't sit; he chooses to wander around the sitting room instead. 

"I'm—it's messy, and it's not even my mess," John squirms in embarrassment. 

It hasn't bothered him before, remains of Sherlock all over the sitting room, clogging it with the _presence_ of a dead man. John had welcomed it until now until he sees Sebastian examining the skull. 

"You're that Watson?" Sebastian asks, running a finger over the side of the knife pinning the Turkish slipper to the wall above the fireplace. 

"Yeah, 'that Watson'," John parrots wondering again if this is the moment Sebastian makes his excuses or starts asking questions about Sherlock. 

"Explains you being sick," Sebastian says, sitting down in Sherlock's chair. 

Except there is no more Sherlock, so why is it still his chair? John thinks. 

Why is most of the flat Sherlock's? He suddenly thinks looking around. 

"Oh god," John moans dropping his head in his hands, "I'm sorry, I should have mentioned it after all that has happened." 

"Why?" Sebastian wonders, "You're your own man—" He makes a face. "As much as anyone can be, anyway. No man being an island and all." 

"Sometimes I've wondered," John sighs. "He's—was—maybe still is—addictive, consuming I suppose. I met Sherlock at a low point—" He rubs his face, wishing Sebastian would understand without him having to put his feelings into words. 

"You don't have to explain," Sebastian says, reaching across the divide between the chairs to lay a hand on John's knee. "Just tell me what you want now." 

A request that's possibly even harder to accommodate than an explanation about Sherlock, about being sucked into the consulting detective's orbit. 

"I don't know! I want things back to the way they were! I want to not be ill! I want a proper cuppa—" He lays his hand over Sebastian's, pins it to his knee and lets himself spill, for once, every last want he has because he can do that now— He can share, pick and choose what he divulges instead of being read like an open book, one of those with the big letters for partially blind people. "—I want something of my own, my space in my house, my mark on—on the fucking sofa or something." 

Sebastian listens to his rant, his head cocked attentively, his face devoid of all emotion until John has nothing more to say, until he's panting for air because he's still sick and breathing is hard. 

Only when John has caught his breath, does Sebastian push out of his chair to kneel between John's legs and reach up to cup his face. 

"I'm going to kiss you now," he declares as easily as he does his intention to get them another pint at the pub. 

He leans in and waits, lips offered up, breath warm on John's cheek and John has no choice but to close the distance. 

This is when the dam breaks, hesitation disappears and John gives in; he claws his hands into Sebastian's hair, grabs at his shirt pulling him closer, up into his lap so he can grope Sebastian's ass and get a crick in his neck from keeping up the sloppy, biting kisses. 

They are both a mess by the time they run out of breath, or room to manoeuvre. 

"Fuck," is all John can say. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—sofa, _now_!" While digging his fingernails into the flesh of Sebastian's ass. 

The other man throws back his head and laughs, easy and joyful if a bit rusty sounding sliding off John's lap to drag him up with ease by his good arm. Tripping over each other as they try to dispose of unwanted clothing in the few steps to the sofa while not letting go of one another. They grip too hard, leave bruises and scratches to topple onto the sofa in a heap. 

John finds himself on top, straddling Sebastian's narrow hips, for an instant he wishes... 

Except he doesn't, looking down at the man he's with he doesn't wish for anything but to taste his skin, to hear him pant with lust. Sebastian looks drunks with lust already, his hands roaming John's chest and flanks, studying his body like it's going to be on a test. 

John leans down to kiss and lick at Sebastian's lips, memorising the taste of him, the way he answers the kisses, the almost soundless growls and the way Sebastian can't resist nipping at his lips when he pulls back. 

Their dicks slip and slide against each other getting wetter with every stroke as John explores and is explored in turn. 

Sebastian moans and arching into his touch, bares his throat, cards his fingers through John's hair, gripping painfully tight when John finds a spot that he particularly likes. 

It's good. 

It's awkward, with John overbalancing and Sebastian's arm getting trapped against the back of the ouch. 

It's wet and slick and squelchy with sweat as they rock against each other, laughing when a hand or knee slips on the leather and their foreheads bump. 

There is no refinement to it, no theatrics, just two people rooting, happy to have each other, to be in the moment chasing the same fulfilment, working together to achieve it. 

Only later, when they are sleepily panting in each other's arms, John wedged against the sofa's back and Sebastian's arse hanging off the seat, their eyes falling shut… it’s then when John realises he can breathe properly once again. 

Not like the "proper" breathing he'd been doing for the last months, but actual, lungs working to full capacity breathing like there is nothing in his lungs. 

"What's the matter?" Sebastian asks, noticing the way John tenses. 

"I can breathe," is all he can say rising on an elbow. 

The urge to get his medical bag wars with the impulse to straddle Sebastian once again to see if more touching will lead to round two. 

Under Sebastian's collar bone a faint spot appears, growing bigger every time John blinks. 

"That's good, isn't it?" Sebastian wonders, "Oh, what's this now?" He continues his fingers rubbing the ball of John's shoulder, "that wasn't there before!" 

"Fucking hell!" John breathes as the spot under Sebastian's collar bone turns deep red and sharpens into the image of a flower with raggedy looking leaves. 

"This is new," Sebastian says tracing the flowers with a fingernail. "They suit you." 

"That—I didn't expect—" He kisses Sebastian, too rough, too possessive possibly, bites at his lips until they are almost the same colour as the flowers they now share. 

Unexpected flowers. 

Flowers John had thought to never see on his skin. 

"Me neither," Sebastian says pulling him down. 

They hold each other tight until the stickiness gets too much. 

Flipping a coin for the first bath leaves John to survey the mess they made of the sofa and pick up stray garments. He's folding Sebastian's trousers when a pocket starts to vibrate. 

Habit has him picking up. 

"Message for you, sir," a rough voice says without preamble before John can notify them that he isn't, in fact, the owner of the phone. 

The Mission Impossible theme plays. 

"Well done, Seb!" Moriarity says, his recorded voice sounding gleeful, "Now on to your next objective!" 


End file.
